THIS IS SO LONG I APOLOGIZE. Been Thinking Of (actual) Princess!jackie And Knight!reader !!! Except,

A Cold Kiss For Warmth

͙⁺･༓☾ - Summary: you unknowingly saved Jackie ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎from her own death.

Pairing: jackie taylor x fem!reader

Warnings: ...

∘₊✧────────────────────✧₊∘

"I'm not jealous of you, Jackie. I feel sorry for you." Shauna spat, her words had bled out of her mouth and into Jackie like a sharp blade.

"And I'm sure everyone back home is so sad to be losing their perfect little princess," Shauna's breath hitched slightly, "but they'll never know how tragic, boring and insecure you really are," Jackie's lips trembled beneath Shauna's sentences, eyes wide and hurt - tears gradually piling upon her face, "or how high school was the best your life was ever gonna get."

"Fuck you." Jackie's words were almost silent, disintegrating into her tears.

You watched, alongside everyone else who had been settled around the fire warmed cabin. It wasn't for you to intervene; or for anyone else to intervene, you had never seen Jackie and Shauna fight - let alone with so much spite, and you figured it was best to leave them alone, though your heart felt for Jackie, Shauna's accusations were visibly going too far.

"I cant be around you - I cant even fucking look at you right now." Jackie didn't have the malice to insult Shauna, you sensed that neither of them really meant what they said, and it had just been the sickening feeling that haunted everyone after the crash, now creeping into their friendship.

It was just last week that you had really gotten close to Jackie, in school you'd usually hang out with the other girls, catching Jackie throwing glances your way in class every now and then. And you could've been caught daydreaming, the way you'd stare longingly at her; the way her hair fell onto her shoulders - how her honey eyes glowed when she looked at you.

"Hey (y/n)." She smiled, a towel around her neck after it had rained during practice. "Oh hi Jackie!" You turned to her after brushing your hair out and handing it back to Lottie.

"I just wanted to say you look really pre-"

"(y/n), hurry up we're gonna be late." Lottie interrupted, "Oh, yeah. Sorry Jackie, I'll see you later."

It was the first time Jackie had the courage to come up to you outside of being lab partners, she was confident most of the time - but when it came to you, she was helpless. You didn't even question your feelings towards Jackie, it just felt like an adoration of some sort, and you were completely oblivious to anything more than 'school friends' being between you two.

And that's how it stayed for a while, longing stares, unsaid words and random study sessions.

Though she'd be there for you when you needed her the most, and you'd be there for her - nothing more than that.

"Well that sounds like your problem, so maybe you should leave." Your mind focused back on the situation at hand, this time watching Jackie more intently, furrowing your eyebrows and clenching your jaw, Shauna's face was ridden in sweat and small tears - her hair in a messy ponytail with strands pinning to her cheek. You looked to the side, watching as everyone lowered their gaze in shame. "Are you fucking crazy Shauna? Nobody's leaving, she'll freeze to death." You stood up, voice quiet yet loud, knowing the chances of people taking your side was slim - but another death out here would cause further, unnecessary chaos. "She'll be fine." Shauna talked to you, yet her gaze was still fixed on Jackie.

"I don't even know who you are anymore." Face painted in disappointment, Jackie scoffed, then averted her look towards you, "I need to take a walk." You followed her, ignoring Shauna's sneer and the confused stares of everyone else, who had seemed to find understanding in your reasoning despite your doubts.

-

The door closed, and frost sunk its teeth into your skin, "(y/n), you don't have to come with me, she's right - I'll be fine." Her words blamed themselves, she shook her head at the floor. "It's freezing out here," both of you began walking away from the cabin, where the light stopped its reach, "you shouldn't be alone." Jackie's face stuttered, finally making eye contact with you.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

She smiled in response, drying her tears with her cold-shaken hands. The both of you slid down behind a tree, you brought your knees to your chest; hugging them. "God, how could she, after all that I've done for her." She wrapped her arms around herself. "She doesn't deserve you Jackie," your eyes trailed her expression, "it's fucked up, what she said." You said, unreasonably nervous, and reasonably shaky.

"I never even liked Jeff that much, I cant believe I let him ruin our friendship like that."

"You didn't?"

"No," her voice settled slightly, "and Shauna knew I had feelings for someone else, I guess that's why she took it as a pass to go fuck Jeff, so I couldn't hold it against her." Jackie tried her best to make up with Shauna in her head, but everything kept leading to a dead end, "But whatever, I'm just glad you're here."

"You cant be serious, you're asking me to study?" You asked, holding a math paper that said 'C' in the biggest writing imaginable - as if your teacher wanted to rub it in as painfully as possible. "Yeah, I mean you're good at chemistry right?" Jackie said, and it was true - it was one of the only subjects you were naturally good at.

"I guess, sort of?"

"So can I come over?"

"Today?"

"If you don't mind,"

"No, yeah, sure." You smiled, raising your eyebrows and packing your bags before leaving.

You had something planned with Lottie that day, though it was easy to cancel with a 'my parents are making me clean up' excuse. It didn't phase you why you were starting to make excuses not to hang out with your friends, but it was rare to talk to Jackie, and at the time it didn't look like you two were getting closer than that anytime soon.

You bit your lip, opening your mouth to speak before stopping yourself. Jackie looked at you, the cold eating away at the two of you, "Jackie, I need to tell you something." You squinted your eyes, barely seeing Jackie's face as the trees blocked the moonlight and using it to your advantage, calming your nerves. "I like you," you wanted to say more, but it felt like you were trapped, and all you could do was drag your words out while struggling to read her face.

Snow began falling onto your hair and patterning Jackie's nose, "Really?" She chuckled, you stretched your legs out and smiled with your lip hanging out slightly, "you're kidding me right? This entire time?" She asked, scoffing at her own words. "Yeah, I guess I never found the time to tell you." The snow reached your shoes, which you hadn't stopped staring at.

"Neither," You looked at her confused, "I like you too, (y/n)." You were even more confused this time, I mean she didn't like Jeff all that much - but you couldn't have been the one that she wanted instead, right? "I swear, I couldn't have told you, I thought you liked that guy from our chem class, what's his name?" She titled her head, "Matt? Are you fucking kidding me? You thought I liked Matt?" You laughed, knowing he had asked you out on multiple occasions, yet you rejected him every single time. "So? He's cute, I thought you guys were a thing for the longest time." she snickered, leaning her eyebrows as she shifted her body to face you.

Your laughs cleared, the grass had been covered in a thin layer of snow by now, and Jackie's bottom lip hid under her mouth. She watched as the snow caressed your hair, lips, nose and skin - admiring every part of you, especially your (e/c) eyes that harboured a small reflection of the moon. "You're the prettiest girl I've ever seen, (y/n)." She faintly smiled, edging closer to you. Your eyes gazed through your lashes, looking at her in partial doubt, you didn't know how desperately she wanted to tell you that for the longest time.

Wintry hands latched onto your frostbitten cheeks, her fingers grazing your jawline as her pale lips slowly found yours. Her touch was warm, her lips were softening under yours as you caved in deeper - you could almost feel her face regaining its rosy colour. You eased beneath her, your mouth tasting hers.

She pulled away, though still being mere inches from your face, "you're cold, I can feel it." Her hands traced down to your shoulder, "I'll be fine." You whispered, wrapping your arms around her neck and kissing her again, with a greater passion than the first time, she almost instantly leaned back in, with gentle confidence.

After a moment, you let out a small giggle against her mouth before bringing your arms to her shoulders and pushing her away gently, "I think we have to go." You spoke, numbness overtaking your legs and nose, Jackie brushed a few snowflakes off of you, before the both of you got up to get back to the cabin, though could've stayed there until dawn.

I was thinking of Jackie Taylor (housewife Jackie perhaps?) with a trans male boyfriend or husband! Helping him remember to take his testerone shots or even taking care of him after top surgery!

oh my god all these housewife jackie thoughts are making me so happy....she'd be the best wifey ever 😭😭😭😭

housewife jackie who lovess wearing your shirts... especially your collared shirts for work. coming home after your shift and finding her curled up on the couch, only wearing your shirt and your boxers. literally the dream.

housewife jackie who wakes up when you wake up for work just so she can help you get dressed :( tying your tie for you... doing your t-shot extra early because she knows you'll forget to do it when you get home >.> jackie already having breakfast ready for you... or times when you have to get up super early and she's too tired for that, she makes sure to leave you a note on the kitchen counter along with a snack for you to take on the way.

housewife jackie helping you shave!! you always nick yourself so she loves doing it for you sometimes :) you also always steal one of her razors because you like the gel ones so she buys you a new pack :D but jackie gently holding onto your face, her thumb rubbing your stubble as she shaves you. NEED.

god. thinking about all the small stuff she would do to affirm your gender 😭❤️ things like buying you aftershave, deodorant, shaving cream, new work slacks or new clothes in general. god, and you know she'd call you hubby.

housewife jackie who has a whiteboard on the fridge that has the days you do your tshot. jackie who is so good at calming you down if you're nervous about it :( she talks you through it while prepping your injection site and she always makes it painless. she apologizes so much and probably tears up if she accidentally hurts you 😭 she'd be clingy the rest of the day and give you tons of kisses to make up for it.

housewife jackie who ALWAYS bakes you a cake for your t anniversaries! it's your 2 years on T? she's baking you a nice ass cake and probably inviting all the girls. also makes sure to take good care of you in bed to show how proud she is of you ;b

she'd Love pampering you after top surgery bro. thinking of showering with her the morning of and just being so giggly because it's finally happening!!! maybe you had to travel to get it and i think she'd love crashing in a hotel with you. she def overpacks. also thinking of telling her that you wont be able to hug her for a while because of recovery and she pouts so hard 😭 she's right there comforting you when driving you to the hospital and whlie in the waiting room, she's helping you into the gown and trying not to cry 😭 it ends up making you cry because you HATE seeing her cry and you're just so emotional because it's scary!! ur scared shitless but so excited.

god she's a mess when you go to the actual surgery room dude 😭 she's trying to calm herself down whlie waiting for hours but she's right there when you get out, all smiles and asking how you feel. you feel like proper shit of course, and she's doing everything she can to help you :( praising you for moving slightly to get onto the hospital bed, giving you a pillow to rest your arms on, giving you as many kisses as she can, helping you drink some water. helping you into your clothes after you're ready to leave!! jackie washing you and helping you go to the bathroom despite how embarassing it is for you. oh my god she'd be the best.

Yandere batfam x coquette!Twin x grunge!Reader Prt.3

Prt.1 Prt 2.

You left quietly, without a dramatic goodbye or a final confrontation. One day, your room was filled with your things—records stacked against the walls, black hoodies tossed over chairs, your signature leather jacket slung over the bedpost. The next, it was empty. A single note remained on your desk: I won’t be back. Don’t look for me.

They didn’t notice immediately.

At first, they assumed you were out—maybe brooding somewhere, maybe crashing at a friend's place. Then the days turned into weeks. Your absence became undeniable. That was when the guilt started creeping in. Not loud and demanding, but quiet, like an itch in the back of their minds that something was terribly, terribly wrong.

—————

Dick found out when he was flipping through a magazine in a waiting room. He wasn’t paying much attention until a familiar face caught his eye. There you were, draped in high-end grunge fashion, leaning effortlessly against a sleek motorcycle. The headline read: The New Face of Rebellion - Gotham’s Own Moonlight Icon.

His stomach twisted. When was the last time he had spoken to you properly? Not just a passing "hey" or a nod, but a real conversation? He couldn’t remember. And yet, there you were, thriving, adored by the world in a way he never imagined. He felt like a stranger looking in, realizing too late that he had been absent from your life far longer than he wanted to admit. Guilt gnawed at him, heavier than any fight he had ever been in. You had once looked up to him, hadn’t you? And he had let you down.

—————

Jason saw it on a billboard. He had been driving through the city when your face appeared, a towering display of grunge aesthetic with an unbothered smirk on your lips. You looked powerful. Untouchable.

He pulled over, staring up at the massive ad. The realization was bitter. He had never thought twice about how much he had ignored you—never cared enough to check in. And now, the whole world saw you for what he had failed to acknowledge: important. Brilliant. More than just a shadow to someone else's light.

Regret burned in his chest. He had always prided himself on being the one who understood outcasts, the one who fought for the forgotten. And yet, he had let you slip through his fingers like you were nothing.

—————

Tim read about you through a business report. One of Gotham’s biggest fashion labels had signed a major contract with you, and their stock had skyrocketed overnight. He rubbed his temples, feeling a strange mixture of pride and guilt. How had he missed this? How had he let you slip away without noticing your potential?

He had spent countless nights obsessing over data, statistics, the rise and fall of Gotham’s industries—yet he hadn’t noticed the rise of someone who had been right under his nose. He should have known. He should have cared more. Tim had always believed he was perceptive, yet when it came to you, he had been blind. The realization stung, more than he cared to admit.

—————

Damian saw it on social media. Talia had sent him a message with a simple link.

"You always underestimated her."

He clicked it, and there you were, featured in an article praising your rise as a grunge icon. He clenched his jaw. He had spent so much time dismissing you, treating you as a nuisance. And now? The world adored you in a way he never had. The way he should have.

For the first time in a long time, he questioned if maybe, just maybe, he had been the lesser one all along. Damian had always thought himself superior, yet you had thrived without him, without any of them. That truth was unbearable.

—————

Stephanie saw you on TV. An interview clip played as she scrolled through channels.

"So tell us," the interviewer said, "how does it feel to be the face of an entire fashion movement?"

You smirked. "Feels like everyone finally caught up."

Stephanie swallowed hard. When was the last time she had even spoken to you? She had been so caught up in her own struggles, her own battles, that she hadn’t even noticed you slipping away. And now? You didn’t just leave. You had become something bigger than any of them.

She had always thought you were cool, but she never really told you. Never made the effort to let you know how much she admired you. And now it was too late. You didn’t need her validation. You never had.

—————

Cassandra had known before the others. She saw your face in magazines, watched clips of your runway walks, and knew exactly how much you had grown into yourself. But she never said anything to the others. Maybe because she knew they needed to realize it on their own.

She had always watched, always understood in a way the others didn’t. And maybe, deep down, she had felt it coming long before you ever packed your bags. She had seen your unhappiness, the way you had been overlooked. And while she had wanted to say something, to reach out—she hadn’t. That guilt sat heavy in her chest.

—————

Barbara was the last to know. She had been too busy. That was her excuse. But when she finally looked you up, saw the sheer scale of your success, she had to sit down. How had she missed it? How had she let you go unnoticed for so long?

She scrolled through article after article, watching interviews and clips, piecing together the years she had ignored. And with each one, the weight in her chest grew heavier. She had once been the one who noticed things first, who caught details others missed. And yet, when it came to you, she had been just as blind as the rest.

—————

Now, you weren’t just a grunge icon. You were best friends with Gigi Hadid, Zendaya, Sabrina Carpenter, and Billie Eilish. You were invited to the biggest talk shows, sitting beside Hollywood elites as if you had always belonged there. The industry adored you. The world watched you.

Your outfits? Always a statement. Leather corsets paired with ripped jeans and chains, oversized band tees tucked into lace skirts, fishnet stockings under combat boots, dark smokey eyeshadow and glossy black nails. You were effortlessly magnetic, the kind of woman who turned heads and owned every room she walked into.

And then there was C/N, your biggest fan. Their room was filled with posters of you—every magazine cover, every candid photo they could find. They admired you openly, idolized your effortless style, your sharp attitude, the way you never let anyone walk over you.

"She’s the coolest person alive," C/N would say to anyone who listened. They didn’t just love you; they adored you. And the Batfamily? They were just distant spectators to the life you built without them.

One by one, they all realized the same thing: they had overlooked you. Dismissed you. Failed you.

And now, you didn’t need them anymore.

Hi! Can you please make a yellowjackets RPG where us the user (they can be gender neutral) is really good at hunting but isn’t very talkative and likes to keep to themselves most of the time and then we go hunting one day and don’t return from the hunting trip when the user is supposed to and everyone is worried. Thank for all the amazing bots you’ve made so far.

YELLOWJACKETS BOT

Where were you?

You were never very talkative, not even before the accident, silence was your home and those girls were the opposite of your home, they were always screaming and arguing, especially now with Coach Ben's return. So the forest had been your home, just the whispers of the winds in your ear and some memories of the past where you were happier when the girls made noise to ask for a pass and didn't yell at each other whether they should sacrifice someone or not, when they started yelling again you just picked up her handmade bow and just whistled indicating that she would leave.

"They're taking too long" — Lottie says, sitting around the campfire they had built while waiting for the meat, in her usual lost tone as she looks at the forest that surrounds them

They were all gathered around the campfire, at this time they should have been heating the meat that you should have brought

"Why didn't Natalie accompany her like always" — Shauna shouts in an irritated tone with a concern hidden between the lines.

"Maybe if you weren't a-" — Natalie starts to speak but is soon cut off by Taissa

"Can you two stop? Maybe we should go look for them in the morning if they don't show up" — Taissa says as she tries to keep the fire going

But almost immediately after Taissa speaks the bushes move followed by the sound of footsteps attracting the apprehensive and alert looks of the girls

Yellowjackets

Note: I hope you like it, if there is any error with the pronouns let me know, thanks for the request. 😋

hi!

saw you're looking for request!!! maybe jackie taylor x f reader? pre-established relationship!

readers part of the teammmm. she's pretty much on jackies side the entire time everytime the girls start to be mean or disrespectful and all to jackie. when jackie goes outside after the fight, r goes to follow but jackie ask to be alone for a bit. she reluctantly agrees, but goes in and out of sleep the entire night, taking a few seconds each time to look at jackie. at one point she sees jackie in the snow and races to get her. jackies pretty much almost dead but r gets to her in time!

the other girls hear the commotion as she brings jackie in. everyone's in the living room, no one slept in the attic (for drama purposes I suppose lmao). r takes jackie to the fireplace and basically tells the other girls to screw off:p

hope this one is good! and thank u!!!

— looking out for you | jackie taylor

| w.c : 915 / request status : open ! |

Jackie stood outside, her breath a cloud of mist in the dark, the remnants of her argument with Shauna still echoing in her ears.

“I’m sure everyone back home is so fucking sad to be losing their perfect little princess, but they’ll never know how tragic, and boring, and insecure you really are. Or how high school was the best your life was ever gonna get.”

Is that really how Shauna felt? Is that how she’s been feeling the entire time they’ve been friends? After all those years?

You had been watching her from the window as everyone else slept, your heart aching for her.

You knew what it was like to feel like an outsider, to be cast aside, but for Jackie, it was something different. She had been there before, at the top of the social hierarchy, but after the crash, everything changed. She felt alone. She knew she wasn’t any good out in the wilderness, that she wasn’t much help, but it still hurt to see her teammates, her friends, pushing her aside.

When the argument erupted, you had stood up to Shauna in Jackie’s defense—you were always by her side. When the others turned their backs on her, you didn't.

You saw past her facade. You understood the girl beneath the perfect smile. Jackie was struggling, and no one else was willing to help her through it. But you were.

So when she left the cabin, you knew you had to follow. But Jackie, stubborn as ever, refused and said, "Look—I appreciate you coming out here, but I really need some time alone."

It was clear from her voice that she needed space. And despite every instinct telling you to chase after her, to hold her, you nodded, swallowing your concern. "Okay. I'll be inside if you need me."

You couldn't sleep longer than thirty minutes at a time after that. The tension in your chest was too much. You tossed and turned in your makeshift bed on the floor, staring at the ceiling, listening to the wind outside. Every time you shut your eyes, a fragment of Jackie's face lingered—her hurt, her frustration, her vulnerability. It was impossible to escape.

After hours of restlessness, you gave up and went back to the window, your eyes scanning for Jackie. And there, in the distance, you saw her. Asleep in the … snow?

Holy shit, it snowed. It snowed and Jackie was still outside.

Without thinking, you bolted out the door. The cold air was harsh against your skin, but you didn’t care.

You had to get Jackie inside. Fast.

By the time you got to her, she was barely conscious. Her face was pale, lips tinged blue, and her body was stiff with the cold. Her breathing was shallow, each exhale looking like a struggle. Panic surged through you as you knelt beside her, your hands trembling as you gently shook her.

"Jackie, Jackie, hey!" You pleaded, trying to wake her. Her eyes flickered open, and for a moment, she looked confused. Dazed.

You heard her murmur something, but couldn’t make it out. You gathered her up in your arms, lifting her carefully, her body limp against yours.

The other girls were gathered in the living room, having woke up when they heard you rush outside, their murmurs dying down as you burst through the door, panting and carrying Jackie. They all turned to look at you, but you didn't give them a chance to speak.

"Get out of the way," you snapped, urgency in your voice. "She's freezing, and I don't have time for any of you right now."

Shauna opened her mouth to say something, but you shot her a glare that stopped her cold. She knew you were serious.

You took Jackie over to the fireplace, gently setting her down on the floor. You grabbed a couple blankets, wrapping them around her. The fire crackled, the heat slowly starting to seep into her frozen body.

Jackie's breathing was still shallow, but at least now it was steady. You sat by her side, holding her against you.

"She's going to be fine," you muttered more to yourself than anyone else, trying to reassure yourself as much as you were Jackie.

Shauna stepped closer and crouched down, trying to take a look at Jackie.

“Jackie? I’m really sorry about—”

“Oh, shut up, Shauna! Don’t act like you care now. If she was out there any longer, she would’ve been dead, and it would’ve been your fault! All of you need to seriously just fuck off and give her some space.”

The room went silent and everyone took in your words. Shauna was stunned, but didn’t need to be told twice. She backed away and gestured for the others to follow her.

Wherever they went didn’t concern you, all that mattered to you now was that you and Jackie were finally alone.

You turned back to Jackie, brushing a lock of hair from her face, your heart aching at the vulnerability that was so apparent.

"You're safe now... I'm not leaving you."

The warmth from the fire began to bring some color back to her cheeks, and her gaze flickered up to your eyes, her lips curving into the faintest of smiles.

"Thanks," she whispered, her voice raspy but full of gratitude.

You squeezed her hand gently. "You don't have to thank me. I'm always going to be here for you, whether you want me to be or not."

———————

A/N : my first time writing for yellowjackets ! i hope i did ur request justice , anon 😓 ! also , sorry if the double spacing bothers anyone, i mainly just do it when i’m writing so i can read easier while proofreading! if i don’t do it , my brain mixes the words together and i lose track of where i’m at :’|

Undoing Fate

neglected to regressor batsis! reader x platonic batfam

what if after 20 years of neglect from your family full of vigilantes, you face an unfortunate death, only to find yourself regressed back to when you were 16?

⤷ lots of emotional neglect, reader was batgirl, reader was a tryhard and an overachiever, reader had no social life in her first life, mentions of drugs, mentions of human trafficking, mentions of death, regression themes, toxic and unhealthy relationships, dysfunctional family, toxic mentalities, reader and everyone else needs therapy…, canon divergence, major character death(s) | tba | based on this

⤷ info! (background) 1 | 2 | read this first to understand the plot and each batfam better :)

⤷ art!!! 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

⤷ if you’re bored m.list—under reconstruction

00 | And she cried over nothing

01 | Sixteen again

02 | A quitter? | ?

03 | Everything is awesome…

04 | Until it’s not | .

05 | Untouched memories

06 | Another suffocating day | .

07 | 1–Paranoia at its finest

| 2–To care or not to care

| 3–Sneaky link?

08 | 1–We’ve been here before (13/4)

| 2–Tricks and Riddles (16/4)

| 3– (TBC) (19/4)

09 | —

taglist is closed‼️

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(2/3) @animegirlfromvietnam @estreiiuh @simply-lovely78 @twismare @ssak-i @g4bbi3xx @buddee @alor-thes @kiyoramen @weirdothatreads @bat1212 @actuallysleepingrn @k1arar3 @zelabee @just-pure-trash @mindless-rock @heartjwonie @nickey-diano @goldfishsmemory @infirebaby @thephantomdanny @madkill44 @w31rd3rg1rl @fishstcks @yvesnoteve @otterluver05 @lilithskywalker @vanilliona @definitely-not-sammie @strwberryglass @f0rtunej @cottage-worm @darkfaethedestroyer @cloudserenity @bigchungusdrinksspritecranberry @cooldeermagazine @fightmebissh @fantasyhopperhea @sirenetheblogger @dind1n @stupidvodkka @lilithquillete @unamused-boss @insomniaccorner @paastaboi @octavius-world @yukixies @imguce @jellyedkazoo @jsprien213 @bad4amficideas @farmerboywakatoshikun-blog @rissareader @itsberrydreemurstuff @i-am-here3 @eyeless-kun @jayjayjayson @rosy-myhouse34 @verypersonadazzel @ehh-im-just-here-to-read @thesehandsarerated-e

(3/3) @glitchmshade @prongs-moon @jjllmx @thegothamsiren @v3vina @levi-09 @leovergurl @dazailover4ever @sofiaswrittendelusions @yukinaabutlazy @sbrewer21 @ryuushou @batboygirlie @simp-hub

(idk why i can’t tag some of y’all, must be your settings i think 😓) (or let me know if i accidentally spelt ur user wrongly 😭💀)

.

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“Cassandra.”

Her name barely carried through the still air, but she didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t acknowledge the voice.

She sat there, arms wrapped tightly around her knees, her entire body curled inward like she could somehow shield herself from reality.

From this.

From your name carved into stone.

The graveyard was too peaceful.

The world around her was too bright.

The sky was impossibly blue, the kind of endless, cloudless stretch that belonged to better days. The sun hung high, warm and golden, spilling light over everything as if this were just any other afternoon. A soft breeze rustled the leaves in the trees, and the grass beneath her was still damp with morning dew. The air smelled fresh—too fresh.

It was a beautiful day.

And Cassandra hated it.

It wasn’t right.

Why wasn’t the sky dark? Why weren’t the clouds swollen with grief, heavy and suffocating? Why wasn’t there a storm, wind tearing through the city, rain drenching the ground, filling the cracks in the pavement, turning the earth around your grave to mud?

Why wasn’t the world mourning with her?

It should be.

Because this—this wasn’t just another day.

This was the day Cassandra Cain sat in front of your grave, alone in the silence, mourning the loss of you.

You.

The person who was supposed to be her younger sister.

The person who shouldn’t be here—not like this. Not beneath the ground.

A shadow passed over her. She barely acknowledged it.

Duke.

He stood for a moment, just watching her.

Duke hesitated before he stepped closer.

His movements were slow, careful, like approaching a wounded animal.

And maybe that’s what Cassandra was.

He placed a hand on her shoulder.

“You can’t stay here forever,” he murmured, his voice quiet, gentle.

Cassandra didn’t respond. She just nudged his hand away, still staring at your name carved into the stone.

Duke exhaled, long and slow, before lowering himself to the ground beside her.

They sat in silence.

Neither of them wanted to be here.

But neither of them could leave.

Not when this grave was here. Not when it held you.

And it still didn’t feel real.

Duke ran a hand over his face, his fingers pressing into his eyes. He didn’t blame Cassandra for shutting down like this.

Because he was still trying to understand it too.

Duke stared at your name, carved into stone, like if he just looked at it long enough, it would make sense.

But it didn’t.

It wouldn’t.

Your death—

God.

It wasn’t just tragic. It wasn’t just painful.

It was sudden.

It didn’t feel possible.

One day, you were here. And then you weren’t.

And Duke didn’t know how to process that.

He kept thinking—kept replaying everything in his head. The details. The reports. The last time he saw you.

And the same question kept coming back to him, again and again and again.

Why didn’t you call him?

You knew he would have helped you. You knew that.

Right?

You knew he wouldn’t have thought twice.

Right?

Would he have thought twice…?

No, surely not.

Right?

You should have known that.

So why didn’t you?

Why didn’t you tell him what you were doing? Why didn’t you let him back you up? Why did you go after that drug ring alone?

You should have called.

You should have known he wouldn’t hesitate. That he wouldn’t have even thought before coming to help you.

You should have been standing here with him.

Not lying six feet underground.

Duke let out a slow, shuddering breath, staring at the gravestone, his chest tightening like something inside him was caving in.

It wasn’t fair.

None of this was fair.

And the worst part? The part that made him feel sick?

Losing people—he knew what that was like.

He lost his parents.

And now—

Now he had lost you.

And you weren’t just anyone.

You were—

God, you were you.

You weren’t perfect, but you were alive in a way that few people ever truly were.

You had this way of making things feel easier. Not because life actually was easier, but because you had a way of making it manageable. Making it bearable.

And you were stubborn.

God, you were so stubborn.

You never backed down, never walked away, never let things go when they mattered. You fought for people. You fought for him. Fought for yourself.

You weren’t his sister by blood, but blood had never mattered in this family. Not really.

You had been his friend before you were his family.

And now you were gone.

And he was just supposed to accept that you were gone?

That he was supposed to sit here, staring at a piece of stone with your name on it, instead of looking you in the eye and telling you you were a dumbass for going in alone?

No.

No, that didn’t make sense.

It didn’t make sense that you—the person who had somehow become his sister—was just gone.

And he—

He hated this.

He hated this so much.

“What…. do you think her last words were…?”

Cassandra’s voice broke through the silence, small but steady.

Duke’s throat tightened. He barely held back a flinch.

“I… don’t know,” he admitted.

And he didn’t want to know.

Because the moment he let himself think about it.

The moment he let himself wonder what your last moments were like—

He wouldn’t be able to take it.

Had you been waiting for someone to save you?

Had you been hoping for some kind of miracle?

Or had you known?

Had you known you weren’t going to make it?

Had you realized that help wasn’t coming?

Had you been scared?

Duke clenched his jaw and swallowed hard.

He didn’t want to think about that.

He couldn’t—

He couldn’t think about that.

Cassandra didn’t look at him, but she was still staring at your grave, her expression unreadable.

But he knew what she was thinking.

She was blaming herself.

And she shouldn’t.

She wasn’t even in Gotham when it happened. There was nothing she could have done.

But logic didn’t matter.

Because you were dead.

And she hadn’t been there.

Neither had he.

And he was always going to carry that with him.

Cassandra had learned you quickly.

How you liked your coffee, how you always leaned against walls instead of standing straight, how you tapped your fingers against your thigh when you were thinking.

How you always waited a second longer than necessary before answering a question—like you were testing the weight of your words before letting them go.

You had been sharp, but soft.

Blunt, but kind.

The kindest of them all.

You had been quiet, but so damn loud in the way you existed.

And now—

Now you were gone.

And Cassandra was still here.

And she didn’t know how.

Cassandra didn’t know how to fight that.

Didn’t know how to fight the weight pressing against her chest, the grief that curled around her like a vice. It was strange. Loss was something she should’ve been used to. Death was something she had faced time and time again. It was part of this life. It was part of the job.

So why did this feel so different?

Why did it feel like something was clawing at the edges of her ribs, carving out a hollow space where you used to be?

She had died before. Her heart had stopped beating, her body had given out. But she had been revived, dragged back to life before the darkness could fully claim her. She had cheated death, walked away with a heartbeat that wasn’t supposed to be there anymore.

So why hadn’t that been you?

Why had she gotten to wake up, gasping, with another chance at life—while you had been left to rot in the ground? Why had she been spared while you had been taken?

Cassandra’s hands curled into fists on her lap, her nails biting into her palms as she forced herself to breathe.

It didn’t help.

Her eyes flickered to your name on the gravestone. The letters carved into the stone were so sharp, so permanent. You weren’t coming back. No second chances, no miracles. Just a name, a date, and the suffocating silence of your absence.

She swallowed thickly and let her gaze drop lower.

No flowers.

Cassandra stared at the empty space in front of your grave, and something in her chest twisted. No matter how hard she searched her mind, she couldn’t remember what kind of flowers you liked.

What flowers did you like?

Did you like lilies—soft, gentle, but heavy with the scent of mourning?

Did you like daisies—bright and stubborn, growing even in the cracks of concrete?

Did you like marigolds—bold, striking, impossible to ignore?

She hated that she didn’t know. Hated that she had spent years at your side and still, she didn’t know what flowers to bring you.

It was ridiculous, how something so small—so insignificant in the grand scheme of things—felt like another knife to the ribs.

Cassandra had always been good at reading people. She had always been good at reading you.

And yet—she didn’t know this.

Didn’t know something so simple.

The realization made her stomach twist.

She had memorized the way you carried yourself, the way your fingers twitched when you thought too hard about something, the way you always paused before speaking, like you were testing your words before letting them go.

She knew how you fought, how you moved, how you breathed.

And yet—she didn’t know this.

This was all she knew.

What did you actually like to do?

What did you like to eat?

What was your go-to drink?

Did you drink coffee out of necessity, or was it your favorite?

What music did you listen to when no one was around?

What did you hum under your breath when you thought no one was paying attention?

Did you like the sun or the moon better?

Did you ever have a favorite book? A favorite movie?

Have you ever fallen in love? Fancied a guy or girl from afar?

Everything that a sister should know—she didn’t.

And now, she never would.

Cassandra squeezed her eyes shut, hands pressing against her thighs, fingers digging into the fabric of her pants.

To think—to think—of all the times you had tried to stay by her side.

Of all the times you had tried—tried to connect with her, tried to understand her, tried to make her feel like she belonged in this family—and she hadn’t let you.

She had been distant. Subconsciously pushing you aside. Not because she hated you—no, never because of that.

But because you two were so vastly different.

Because she saw you and thought—you weren’t built for this life.

Because she looked at you and thought—you shouldn’t be here.

You weren’t a killer. You weren’t a soldier. You weren’t someone who should have had to claw and scrape your way through the darkness of Gotham.

You should have had a normal life.

You could have had a normal life.

And maybe, maybe—if she had pushed harder, if she had done more, if she had made you see what she saw—maybe you would have left this life.

Maybe if she had pushed harder, you wouldn’t have ended up like this.

You wouldn’t be here, six feet under, with a name carved into stone and a body lost to the dirt.

Maybe she could have been there.

Maybe she could have saved you.

Cassandra clenched her jaw, her fists tightening further.

No.

That wasn’t even it.

That wasn’t even the truth.

It wasn’t about whether you should have been a vigilante. It wasn’t about whether or not you belonged in this life.

It was about her.

It was about the choices she had made.

If she hadn’t thought she knew what was best for you—if she hadn’t dismissed you before even giving you a chance—maybe things would have been different.

If she had helped you instead of discouraging you—if she had guided you instead of pushing you away—maybe you wouldn’t have felt so alone in this.

Maybe you wouldn’t have felt like you had to prove yourself at every turn.

Maybe you wouldn’t have pushed yourself so far—so recklessly, so relentlessly—that your body had begged you to stop, had screamed at you to rest, and yet, you had ignored it anyway.

Because you had something to prove.

To yourself.

To everyone else.

To her.

And why?

Because she had made you feel like you weren’t enough.

Like you weren’t competent enough, weren’t worthy enough, to stand beside them.

Like you had to earn your place in a way that no one else had to.

And that—

That was what crushed her.

That was what made her stomach churn and her chest tighten, what made her fingers twitch at her sides and her jaw clench until it ached.

Because she had done that.

She had made you feel that way.

And it had cost you your life.

If she had just been there—if she had helped you, taught you, stayed by your side as a sister should, instead of leaving you to figure everything out on your own—maybe you wouldn’t have needed to push yourself to the brink just to keep up.

Maybe you wouldn’t have felt like you had to bleed just to prove you deserved to be by their side. By her side.

Maybe—just maybe—

You would still be here.

She didn’t know where the thought came from, only that it settled deep inside her, heavier than stone.

She should be used to loss. It was part of the job, part of the life they all lived. People died. People left. That was just how things were.

But Cassandra Cain didn’t know how to exist in a world that didn’t have you in it.

Why?

Because your presence had been undeniable.

Not in the way that others were loud—not in the way Dick filled a room with laughter, or in the way Jason made his presence known with his sharp words and sharper gaze, or in the way Tim existed like a shadow, quiet but calculating.

No.

You were present in the littlest ways. The kind of ways that most people overlooked.

But she noticed.

She always noticed.

The way you drummed your fingers against your thigh when you were thinking—not impatient, not absentminded, just… rhythmic, like you were keeping time to a song only you could hear.

The way you always lingered in a doorway before stepping inside, as if you were gauging the room, the people, the atmosphere—like you needed to prepare yourself before crossing the threshold.

The way your shoulders stiffened whenever someone called your name unexpectedly, like you were always bracing for something, like you had learned a long time ago that being noticed wasn’t always a good thing.

The way your eyes softened, just barely, whenever you looked at her.

The way you tilted your head when you were confused, the way you bit the inside of your cheek when you were frustrated, the way your fingers twitched whenever you held back from saying something.

The way you carried yourself—quiet, but never unnoticed. Soft, but never weak.

You had been everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

In the way the floorboards creaked in a rhythm only you walked in. In the faint scent of your shampoo that lingered in the halls long after you passed through them. In the way the air felt just a little different when you were around—charged, like something unspoken was always hanging in the space between you and everyone else.

And now—

Now you were gone.

And the world felt wrong.

Her nails bit into her palms as she exhaled sharply.

The weight in her chest grew heavier, suffocating, pressing against her ribs until she could barely breathe.

She wanted to say sorry.

For not being there when it mattered.

For not being the sister you had wanted her to be.

For all the times you had reached for her and she had turned away.

But apologies were meaningless now.

There was no use in apologizing to a grave.

The dead could not hear the apologies of the living.

And she hated—hated—how it seemed like she just wanted to get rid of the guilt, like this was just another weight on her shoulders that she was desperate to shake off.

It wasn’t that.

It wasn’t about making herself feel better.

But to anyone else, it might seem shallow, like she was just trying to justify her regrets.

And that—

That was when she exhaled sharply, her voice quiet, raw, and firm.

“I failed her.”

Duke stiffened beside her.

“Cass…”

“No.”

She finally moved.

Finally stood.

Her knees ached from kneeling too long, but she ignored the feeling, ignored the way the world spun for half a second before steadying again.

She looked down at the grave—at your name, your absence, the proof that you were really, truly, gone.

“There’s a lot of things I regret,” she admitted, her voice steady. “A lot of things I should have done. A lot of things I shouldn’t have done.”

She exhaled.

“But there is no use feeling this way when—”

She stopped.

When what?

When you were already gone?

When nothing she did would change that?

When no amount of guilt, no amount of grief, no amount of anything would ever bring you back?

Duke watched her, silent, waiting.

And finally—she finished.

“There is no use feeling this way when the only person who could have forgiven me isn’t here anymore.”

Duke inhaled sharply. His lips parted—ready to argue, ready to refute, ready to tell her that it wasn’t her fault.

But he didn’t.

Because she was right.

And they both knew it.

There was nothing either of them—or anyone else—could do.

The damage was done.

You were gone.

And Cassandra would have to live with that. He would have to live with that.

She turned to Duke, her expression unreadable, her body language tight.

Her shoulders were stiff, arms curled inwards, fingers twitching ever so slightly at her sides. A silent scream compressed into muscle and bone, into tension that refused to unravel. Her breath was steady, too steady, the kind of control that only came when someone was barely holding themselves together.

And then, after a moment—

He moved first.

Slowly, carefully, as if giving her the chance to pull away, to reject the gesture before it even landed. But she didn’t.

So he pulled her into a hug—strong, firm, grounding.

A weight. A warmth. A presence she didn’t realize she needed until she was sinking into it.

Cassandra didn’t resist.

Didn’t hesitate.

She didn’t go rigid, didn’t pull away out of habit, didn’t keep that careful distance she always did when she wasn’t sure how to accept comfort.

No.

She closed her eyes and let herself feel.

For the first time in hours. In days. In what felt like forever—she let herself be held.

Let herself be comforted.

Even though she didn’t feel like she deserved it.

Because what right did she have to be comforted when you weren’t here?

What right did she have to grieve you when she had been part of the reason you were gone?

But Duke didn’t let go.

He held onto her like he understood. Like he knew that if he let go, she might just disappear, might crumble into something irreparable, something that grief would consume whole.

So she stayed.

And for now—

For now, that would have to be enough.

128 hours, 13 minutes, and 27 seconds.

That’s how long it’s been since Gotham fell into chaos. Since the family fell into shambles.

Since you took your last breath.

Tim’s fingers twitched over the console, knuckles pale, hands locked into position as if frozen mid-action. The blue glow of the Batcomputer flickered against his face, casting long, sharp shadows that made the bags under his eyes seem deeper, his expression more hollow.

He hadn’t slept. Hadn’t moved. Had barely breathed.

Because he couldn’t stop watching.

The footage looped again. And again. And again.

Warehouse. Low light. South Gotham docks. Camera angle, elevated—one of Batman’s hidden surveillance feeds.

You moved like a ghost. A shadow.

A blur of motion cutting through the dark.

Tim rewound the footage. Slowed it down. Watched. Memorized. Analyzed.

His eyes were red from the hours of staring at the screen. The footage ran in a constant loop, a ghostly reminder of everything that had gone wrong. He couldn’t stop. He couldn’t look away, even though he knew it wouldn’t change anything. Maybe this time, there’ll be something he missed.

That’s what he told himself.

It was a sickening kind of hope, one born from desperation. He needed something—anything—that would prove this wasn’t just another casualty of the mess they lived in. This wasn’t an accident. He couldn’t let it be an accident. If it was, then what was the point? What was the point of all of this? If it was just an accident, if this was just the way things always were, then what the hell was he even doing here? What was the point of it all?

What was the point of all the fights, the struggles, the years of fighting against the darkness if it could just snuff out a life like that, without any warning? Tim couldn’t accept it.

His heart hammered in his chest as he hit replay again. He didn’t even realize how many times he had watched this same clip. How many times he had gone over it, scrutinizing every frame, searching for something that wasn’t there. There’s something.

There has to be something.

A sign.

A clue.

Anything to prove this was deliberate, something he can blame.

But no matter how many times he watched it, no matter how many hours he spent scrutinizing every damn detail, nothing would change. Nothing could undo what had already been done.

But still, he couldn’t stop himself. He had to watch. He had to know. He had to find the why, the how, the reason behind it.

Why had you gone in alone?

Why hadn’t anyone been there for you?

Why hadn’t he been there?

The rest of the world had moved on, or at least tried to. Gotham was still reeling from the explosion of chaos that followed the takedown of the drug ring you’d infiltrated. The criminals, the ones you’d exposed, some of them were caught, while others were already on the run, their operations disrupted in ways they hadn’t anticipated. The whole damn city had been thrown into disarray because of this.

Tim gripped the edge of the desk, his knuckles turning white, his jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. He felt a knot twist in his stomach, one he couldn’t untangle, no matter how hard he tried. He wanted to blame the criminals. He wanted to blame them for everything. For the sudden rise in crimes. For the sudden disarray in Gotham. But it wasn’t them. He couldn’t make himself believe that. No. It wasn’t their fault. Not exactly.

It was yours. It was yours and no one else’s.

It’s all because of you.

That thought stung, burned in the pit of his stomach, and yet it lingered, demanding to be acknowledged. Tim didn’t want to think that way—he didn’t want to blame you. But how could he ignore it? You had done your job, you’d exposed something they couldn’t ignore, but now it was a nightmare. Gotham was chaos, because of you.

No.

He slammed his fist on the desk, glaring at the footage, refusing to accept that thought. No, this wasn’t your fault. It couldn’t be. It was never supposed to happen like this. You had been right about the drug ring, and you had fought damn hard to stop it, all by yourself. But that’s where it went wrong, wasn’t it? You hadn’t called for backup. You hadn’t reached out. If you had—if you had just asked for someone, anything, anyone—maybe you would still be here.

Tim couldn’t stop the wave of anger that crashed over him. But it wasn’t at the criminals who had shot you, it wasn’t even at the fact that Gotham had spiraled into a warzone. No. It was at you.

Fuck.

Even now, after everything, he was the one left to clean up your mess. The same way he always had. The same way he always would. The same he always did. But this time—

This time, you weren’t there to hear him run through the details, to see the frustration in his eyes when things went sideways. You were gone.

And that was the most fucked up part of it all.

Where had it all gone wrong? When had things shifted from predictable to catastrophic? What had gone wrong between your last breath and his desperate attempts to piece together every detail, every frame of this damn footage? How many more people did he have to lose before he could just accept it?

Tim’s hands tightened around the desk, nails digging into the cool surface, but his thoughts kept spiraling out of control. He should be used to this by now. Loss. Death. People getting torn away from him like everything was just so damn fragile. But no. He wasn’t used to it. No matter how many times he told himself he should be, no matter how many people he’d lost, he wasn’t.

It never got easier.

It was almost too much. Too much to bear, but it wouldn’t stop. The losses he faced just kept looping over and over again. The image of you, falling to the floor of that warehouse, blood pooling beneath you.

Tim exhaled shakily, his nails scraping against the desk as he forced himself to take another breath. His chest was tight, his ribs felt like they were caving in, like his own body was rejecting the sheer weight of everything. But he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop watching. Couldn’t stop looking at you, frozen in time, caught in the endless cycle of your last moments.

The footage looped again. And again. And again.

His brain wouldn’t stop dissecting it, wouldn’t stop scrutinizing every movement, every frame, as if the sheer force of his obsession could change something. As if watching it just one more time would suddenly make it all make sense.

But it didn’t. It never did.

He slammed the replay button, forcing the video back to the start, watching as you darted through the shadows, your movements swift and efficient. You had been so sure of yourself. You had to be, because you wouldn’t have done this otherwise, right? You wouldn’t have gone in without backup unless you knew you could handle it. Unless you thought you had no other choice.

Right?

But why?

Why?

Why hadn’t you asked him for help? Or anyone else for the matter.

Tim dug the heel of his palm into his eye, as if he could press the questions out of his skull, force them into submission.

Hah. Who was he fooling?

He knew why.

Because this wasn’t the first time.

This wasn’t the first time you’d come to him with a lead, eyes sharp and voice brimming with certainty. You’d always been like that—so sure, so goddamn convinced that you were right. And most of the time?

You weren’t.

Tim had been the one to prove it almost every time, the one who always had to go back, retrace your steps, find the gaps in your logic, the flaws in your deductions. He’d been the one who had to clean up after you when things didn’t go the way you expected.

And this time—

This time, you had been right.

The realization hit him like a knife to the gut, twisting, tearing.

You had been right. You had exposed something big, something that should have been on their radar, something that had been festering in Gotham for longer than any of them had realized.

And it had cost you.

Tim’s hands trembled over the keyboard, his fingers curling into fists. That’s why he can’t blame you. That’s why he can’t let himself be angry at you.

Not really.

Because if it hadn’t been for you, this whole operation would have gone unnoticed. Would have slipped through the cracks, just like so many things before it.

You had forced them to see it.

And now Gotham was paying the price.

Now you had paid the price.

Tim gritted his teeth, his breath unsteady.

If you had just—

If you had just waited.

If you had just asked for help.

If you had just asked him for help.

His vision blurred for a moment, but he wasn’t sure if it was from exhaustion or frustration or something worse. He swiped at his face, barely noticing the wetness on his fingers before his hand hovered over the keyboard again. He had to—

“Tim.”

The voice cut through the haze of his spiraling thoughts like a gunshot.

He barely reacted. His shoulders tensed, his gaze stayed locked on the screen, his fingers frozen above the keys.

“Tim.”

He heard her footsteps approaching, the sharpness in her tone laced with something else—exasperation, frustration. Concern.

He ignored it.

The footage replayed.

Again.

And again.

“Tim.”

He didn’t turn. Didn’t blink.

And then there was a hand on his shoulder, yanking him away from the screen, forcing him to look up, to register the anger, the exhaustion, the raw frustration carved into her expression.

Stephanie.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

Tim blinked at her, dazed, uncomprehending.

Stephanie’s jaw clenched, her grip tightening. “Are you even aware of what’s happening out there? Gotham is a fucking mess. And you’re down here—what? Watching the same damn footage on repeat? Watching (Name) die over and over again?? Like it’s going to change something?”

Tim’s fingers twitched. His throat felt dry, his voice rough when he finally spoke. “I have to—”

“No, you don’t.” Her voice cracked, just slightly, but it was gone in an instant, replaced by something harsher. “You don’t, Tim. You’re just—” She exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through her hair. “Jesus Christ, do you even know where Damian is?”

That made Tim hesitate.

Stephanie’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

Tim swallowed, his jaw locking. “I’m—”

“You’re what?” she cut in, voice sharp and furious. “Busy? Too busy staring at a screen, trying to—what? Bring her back? Figure out some convoluted explanation that makes this make sense?”

Tim flinched.

And Stephanie didn’t stop.

“Because guess what, Tim? It doesn’t make sense. It never makes sense. And you just sitting here, watching her die on repeat? Analysing her every move, every breath, every mistake? It’s not going to fix anything.”

Tim exhaled, slow and shaky, his gaze dropping for a fraction of a second.

“Bruce, Jason and Damian are god knows where. Dick’s gone on a rampage. Cass and Duke are off on their own, trying to keep shit from burning down completely. Helena and Kate are out there trying to contain the damage—we had to call Dinah in because there aren’t enough of us—”

Her breath hitched, her voice shaking now, but she pushed forward, because Stephanie Brown didn’t stop when things got hard.

“And you? You’re here. Acting like this is going to change anything.”

Tim’s fingers curled into fists.

Stephanie shook her head, anger flashing in her eyes. “She’s gone, Tim.”

“She’s not gone.”

Tim’s breath was coming in quick, ragged bursts. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, but he wasn’t sure if it was from frustration or the way Stephanie was looking at him right now—like she couldn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth.

“She’s not dead…!” His voice cracked, but he barely noticed. His hands slammed against the desk, gripping the edges so hard his knuckles went white. “She can’t be dead—she just—”

“Tim, do you even hear yourself right now?!” Stephanie snapped, stepping closer. “(Name) is dead! Dead, Tim! And you need to start—”

“No.” He shook his head, refusing to let her finish. “No, because what about all the other people we thought were dead? Superman. Bruce. Conner. Bart.” His voice was climbing now, chest heaving as his mind raced faster than his words. “And you—you, Stephanie. Every single one of you somehow came back to life, whether it was because you weren’t actually dead, or you were brought back by—”

“That’s not the same thing!” Stephanie’s voice was sharp, but Tim didn’t stop.

“It is the same thing!” His eyes were wide now, wild with something he didn’t know how to name. “Superman was literally killed, and what happened? He came back. Bruce—we buried him, and guess what? He wasn’t even dead! Conner—he died during Infinite Crisis and came back! Bart sacrificed himself during —” His breath hitched, and he barely held it together. “And you.” His voice was shaking now. “You faked your death, Steph. You let me and everyone think you were dead for months...! And yet—”

Stephanie exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through her hair. “But this is different, Tim! She’s different!”

“How?! How is this different?”

“Because she was shot, Tim!” Stephanie practically shouted, frustration burning in her chest. “She wasn’t resurrected by some Kryptonian regeneration matrix, or caught in some bullshit time displacement! She wasn’t lost in the timestream like Bruce, or cloned by some insane scientist, or mysteriously revived by the Speed Force! She was shot! Bullets went through her, Tim! There’s no coming back from that!”

Tim’s breath stuttered, but he clenched his jaw, shaking his head rapidly.

“No,” he muttered, his fingers flying over the keyboard. “No, that doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t make sense. Her suit was reinforced—there’s no way a bullet could have—”

“Because we weren’t prepared, Tim!” Stephanie cut in, her voice cracking. “She wasn’t prepared! Those bullets weren’t normal—those weren’t some cheap rounds from street dealers—they were made of promethium, Tim. Promethium. Her suit wasn’t designed to withstand that kind of impact.”

Tim faltered for half a second.

But it wasn’t enough.

“No.” His voice was flat, empty. “No, because if that’s true, then that means—” His breath hitched again, his fingers twitching over the keyboard. “That means she wasn’t supposed to die.” His voice grew distant, his mind racing through every scenario. “That means there was a way we could have stopped this. That means there was a way I could have—”

Stephanie’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing.

“You always do this,” she seethed, voice shaking. “You always think it’s on you to fix everything—to stop everything before it happens.” Her hands clenched into fists, nails biting into her palms. “Well, guess what, Tim? Not everything is your fault.”

Tim let out a humorless laugh, sharp and bitter. “Oh yeah? Because it sure as hell feels like it is.”

Stephanie inhaled sharply, rage flaring in her chest.

“She’s gone, Tim,” she said, her voice dangerously low. “And you’re sitting here acting like you’re the only one who lost her.”

Tim flinched at that.

She’s right.

How could she not be?

“You think you’re the only one hurting?” Her voice cracked, but she pushed through. “You think you’re the only one who can’t believe she’s actually gone?” She shook her head, frustration bleeding into every word. “Newsflash, Tim—I can’t believe it either. None of us can.” Her breathing was uneven now, the weight of the past few days pressing down on her like a vice. “But you—” She exhaled sharply. “You and (Name)? You weren’t even close.”

Stephanie saw Tim stiffen, and she felt her throat tightened, but she didn’t stop. Even though she knew she didn’t have any right to say the next few words.

“I mean, I can’t even talk, right? Because it’s not like she and I were friends or anything. But whatever we had was at least something—more than whatever the hell was going on between you two.” She swallowed, voice thick with something she refused to name. “So why, Tim? Why are you acting like this? Like you’re the only one who lost her?”

Tim opened his mouth—then closed it.

Because she was right.

And he hated that she was right.

Because he didn’t know why.

Didn’t know why this loss felt different.

Didn’t know why it felt like he was suffocating on it.

Maybe because he had never taken loss well.

Maybe because every time he lost someone, it felt like another piece of him was being ripped away.

Maybe because he still wasn’t convinced.

Maybe because he still felt like there was a way to fix this.

Before he could say anything—before either of them could keep unraveling—a sharp, piercing alert rang through the cave, slicing through the air like a blade.

Stephanie jerked her head up, eyes narrowing. “What the hell was that?”

Tim’s entire body went rigid.

He turned to the screen, fingers flying over the keyboard. His heart pounded against his ribs, his stomach twisting. His eyes scanned the system logs—

And then he froze.

Stephanie immediately stepped closer. “Tim?”

Tim didn’t move.

“Tim.”

Nothing.

Then, slowly—so slowly—he turned to look at her. His expression was unreadable.

“…That’s the alert Bruce installed at the graveyards.”

Stephanie felt her stomach drop.

“What?”

Tim swallowed, his throat dry, his voice barely above a whisper.

“It’s an alert that goes off whenever someone is digging up the graves.”

Stephanie’s breath caught in her throat.

And then—

Tim clenched his jaw.

“The alert that just sounded… was for (Name)’s grave.”

The Batcave was silent.

Not the kind of silence that came with solitude, nor the kind that settled between brief moments of stillness.

No—this silence was suffocating.

Not in the literal sense—there was no smoke, no lack of oxygen, no pressing physical force keeping them in place. But the weight in the air, the way it clung to their skin and settled in their bones, made it impossible to ignore.

It was the kind of silence that pressed against their ribs like iron bars, the kind that wrapped itself around their throats and made it hard to breathe. It was the kind of silence that wasn’t truly silent at all—because beneath it, there was tension, rage, a storm waiting to break.

The only sounds were the quiet hum of the Batcomputer and the occasional distant drip of water echoing through the cavernous walls. Even the bats that lurked in the high crevices seemed to hold their breath.

It had been silent since they got back.

Not the comfortable silence of routine, not the practiced quiet of soldiers working in tandem, but a silence teetering—on the edge of something irreversible, something that could snap at any second.

Bruce had yet to turn around.

His back remained to them, shoulders squared, posture impossibly still, and yet—somehow, in some unnatural way, he still managed to command the entire room. Still made every breath feel like it had to be earned, like speaking out of turn might shatter something fragile and irreparable.

But the silence couldn’t last forever.

Bruce’s voice, when it finally came, was low and sharp as a blade.

“Damian.”

His name cut through the air like a blade.

Damian inhaled sharply, but he did not falter.

His shoulders squared, his hands curled into fists at his sides, his jaw locked in a way that made his teeth ache, and he forced himself to meet Bruce’s gaze when his father finally turned around.

“Why did you do it?” Bruce’s hands had curled into fists at his sides.

“I had to take a chance.”

The words left him before he could second-guess them, before he could even consider any other way to phrase it. As if putting it any other way would make a difference. As if making it sound more reasonable, more calculated, more understandable would change anything.

Bruce’s stare didn’t waver.

His response was immediate.

“No.” His voice was harsher now, dangerously close to breaking. “This isn’t the way.”

The words were spoken like a fact. As if there was no arguing it, as if the conversation should have ended right there, as if Damian had already lost.

But he hadn’t.

Because this wasn’t about right or wrong.

This wasn’t about rules.

This was about you.

“Why not?”

His voice came sharper this time, cracking through the space between them, pushing against the weight of Bruce’s certainty, forcing something else into the silence. Something raw. Something desperate.

“I had to take a chance.”

He had to.

He had to.

Bruce inhaled, slow and measured, before exhaling just as steadily.

When he spoke again, his voice was still calm.

Unshaken.

And somehow, that only made it worse.

“(Name) is dead, Damian.”

A sharp breath.

His stomach twisted violently.

His body tensed, his nails pressing so hard into his palms that the sting barely even registered. His heartbeat slammed against his ribs, but outwardly, he refused to react.

He refused.

“She’s not—”

“Damian.”

Bruce’s voice cut through his own, and the finality in it sent something cold shooting down his spine.

But he shoved it down.

He wouldn’t accept this.

He couldn’t.

Damian’s hands curled into fists. “Then I should have gotten her to the pit sooner.”

“That’s not how this works.”

“Then how does it work, Father?” Damian snapped, his voice cutting through the cave like a whip. “Tell me—tell me how it makes any sense that Jason could be revived but not—” His voice caught for half a second, but he gritted his teeth and pushed through. “Not her.”

Bruce didn’t answer immediately.

And that silence—it was almost worse than anything he could have said.

“That was different.”

Damian’s fists clenched.

“How?”

Bruce inhaled again, and something in the way he did it—something so controlled, so deliberate—made Damian’s stomach twist even further.

“Jason wasn’t brought back to life by the Lazarus Pit.” His voice was firm, but there was something almost reluctant in the way he spoke, like he didn’t want to explain this. Like saying it out loud would make something real. “The pit only restored his mind. It erased the damage. That’s different from what you tried to do.”

The words felt like they didn’t make sense.

Like they didn’t fit.

Like they shouldn’t exist.

Like they should be impossible.

But Bruce—

His father was saying them like they were true.

Something shifted.

Something small.

But Damian noticed.

Bruce stopped speaking, his sentence left unfinished, hanging in the air like a rope about to snap.

His fingers twitched at his sides.

His jaw tightened—just slightly, just barely.

His mind raced—whirring, unraveling, dissecting—because it should have worked.

He had done everything right.

He dug you out of your grave, broke through the dirt with his own two hands. He had brought you to the only Lazarus Pit in Gotham, he dragged your lifeless form across the damp cavern floors. He had submerged you into the emerald waters, the same way his mother had shown him, the same way it had worked before.

But nothing happened.

The pit remained still.

The water glowed, but it did not churn, did not surge with life.

It removed the scars you’ve gotten over the years. But that was it.

You—

you did not wake up.

You remained still. Cold. Gone.

Why?

Why didn’t it work?

It should have worked.

Unless—

A voice rang in his ears.

His mother’s voice.

“The Lazarus Pit restores the body to its perfect condition—before death.”

Before death.

Is that why?

Is that why the Lazarus Pit didn’t work?

Jason was barely alive—barely sane—when he was thrown into the pit.

But he was alive.

And you—

You weren’t.

Damian couldn’t say it.

Couldn’t bear to say it.

No.

No, he refused to accept that.

You couldn’t be gone. Not like this. Not this easily. Not this pathetically.

His voice was hoarse when he spoke again.

Something inside him cracked.

“You knew.”

The words felt like an accusation.

Bruce didn’t deny it.

Damian’s hands shook.

“You knew it wouldn’t work, didn’t you?” His voice was quiet, but it carried through the cave like a gunshot.

Bruce still didn’t deny it.

“You knew, and you still let me—”

Damian felt himself faltering. He felt the words get caught in his throat.

“You still let me dig her up.”

His throat tightened, and he felt something press down on his chest, something suffocating, something that refused to let him breathe properly.

“You let me take her to the Lazarus Pit. You let me think it would work—”

Bruce inhaled, slow and even. “You needed to see for yourself.”

Damian’s vision blurred for half a second.

Then he snapped.

“That’s bullshit.”

Bruce remained still.

“You wanted me to fail.”

Bruce remained silent.

“You wanted me to see—” His breath hitched. “That she was really—”

He couldn’t say it.

Because if he said it—if he let himself even breathe those words—

It would be real.

Damian couldn’t stand it.

Couldn’t accept it.

Because how could he?

When you had died such a meaningless death?

When you had gone out like that?

He hadn’t gone to your funeral.

Hadn’t watched them lower you into the ground.

Hadn’t stood beside the rest of them, listening to empty condolences and meaningless words.

No.

Because he couldn’t.

Because he refused to accept that you were really gone.

Because you had always been so stubborn.

So reckless.

Because you shouldn’t have died like that.

Because you should have let them help you.

Because it wasn’t supposed to be like this.

But who was he to say that?

When he was just like you.

Stubborn. Reckless in his own way.

Just as self-destructive.

And it was eating him alive.

“She wouldn’t have wanted this.”

Damian’s eyes snapped toward Tim.

Tim, who had been standing quietly until now.

Tim, who looked like he was barely holding himself together.

Tim, who had alerted Bruce—who had found Damian at the Lazarus Pit, alongside Stephanie.

Damian let out a sharp scoff. “Huh.” He tilted his head, voice dripping with something venomous. “And what would you know?”

Tim’s expression flickered—just for a second.

“More than you think.”

Damian scoffed, shaking his head. “No. You wouldn’t.”

Tim exhaled sharply. “You think you knew her.” His voice was low, measured, but it wavered slightly. “But you didn’t.”

Damian’s chest tightened. “And you did?”

Tim’s hands curled into fists.

Damian let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “You hated her.”

Tim stiffened. His jaw clenched.

“No, I didn’t.”

The words were immediate. Unshaken.

And somehow, they hit harder than anything else so far.

“You never even acknowledged her.”

“Yes I did—“

“Well I suppose it wasn’t enough apparently.”

Tim’s breath stilled, his shoulders locking, his throat bobbing in a way that Damian almost wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been looking for it.

“Well you pushed her away every chance you got,” Tim shot back, voice sharp, words cutting. “So don’t act like you actually cared.”

Damian’s fingers twitched.

“I did care.”

Tim exhaled, bitter.

“Yeah? She definitely knew that for sure.”

Damian froze.

His breath hitched.

You knew.

You had to know.

Didn’t you?

Even when he had insulted you, even when he had been a complete bastard—

Even when he was cruel, even when he acted like you were nothing but a nuisance, even when he never said anything—

You had to have known.

Didn’t you?

Didn’t you?

“I had to take this chance,” Damian said, quieter, breath uneven, hands shaking. “Because she was my sister.”

Tim’s expression flickered.

And then—

“She was my sister too.”

The words left Tim before he could stop them.

Before he could even think.

Everything stopped. The words lingered in the air, sinking into the silence like a blade buried deep into flesh.

She was my sister, too.

Tim hadn’t meant to say it.

Hadn’t planned it.

Hadn’t even thought about it before the words just left his mouth, before they hit the space between them, before they cut into something raw, something real, something he hadn’t even let himself acknowledge until it was already too late.

His own breath caught, his hands curling into fists at his sides, his pulse hammering against his skull as if his own body was trying to reject what he’d just said.

Because why now?

Why was he only saying it now?

Why was he only acknowledging it when you were already—

His throat locked up.

Damian’s fingers twitched.

His mouth opened slightly, as if to speak, as if to say something, but no words came out.

The air between them was thick, suffocating, the weight of everything pressing down on Tim’s ribs so hard that he felt like he could barely breathe. His heartbeat was uneven, erratic, like his own body didn’t know how to process what had just happened.

“You don’t get to say that.”

Damian’s voice was quiet.

Too quiet.

Tim exhaled sharply, his jaw locking. “What?”

Damian’s shoulders squared, his arms stiff at his sides, his fingers still shaking even as he clenched them into fists. His breathing had turned uneven, almost unsteady, but his voice—his voice was sharp.

“You don’t get to say that.”

Tim scoffed, shaking his head, but he felt something tightening in his chest.

“I don’t get to say that?” His voice came out bitter, biting, but his own hands were trembling slightly now. “(Name) was my sister too, Damian. That’s just a fact.”

Damian’s breath stilled.

For a split second, his body went completely still.

“Then why did you treat her like she wasn’t?”

Tim’s chest clenched. His breath hitched.

Damian took a step closer, voice cutting deeper, something sharp in his expression, something broken in his stare.

“Why did you act like she didn’t matter? Like she wasn’t even worth your time? Why did you act like she—”

His breath stuttered for half a second, something cracking through his voice before he forced it back down.

“You pushed her away.”

Tim clenched his teeth. “That’s rich coming from you.”

Damian’s hands twitched.

“I never pushed her away.”

“You shut her out,” Tim snapped, voice cracking under the weight of it. “You resented her.”

Damian’s stomach twisted.

“I did not.”

“You didn’t care about her when she was alive.”

“I did.”

“You barely even acknowledged her—”

“I did not hate her.”

“But now you suddenly care?” Tim let out a bitter laugh. “Now, suddenly, she’s your sister?”

“She is my sister,” Damian snapped. “And you don’t get to say otherwise.”

Tim’s breath hitched.

His heartbeat slammed against his ribs.

Because that—

That wasn’t the same thing.

That wasn’t—

“That’s not what I said.”

Damian’s nails dug into his palms.

“Yeah, but it’s what you meant.”

Tim inhaled sharply, his hands twitching at his sides, something thick in his throat that he didn’t want to name.

He shook his head, exhaling, his breath uneven. “You think I—”

“You think I hated her?” Damian cut in, voice sharp, voice dangerous. “You think I would have wannted her to die? You really think that’s what I wanted all this time??”

Tim clenched his jaw, shaking his head. “That’s not what I’m saying—”

“Really?”

Damian took another step forward, his body tense, his posture unreadable, his fingers curled into fists like he was trying so hard to keep himself steady, to keep himself from doing anything other than this.

“Then what are you saying?”

Tim exhaled sharply, shaking his head again, running a hand through his hair before letting it drop back to his side, something tight inside of him, something that was pressing too hard against his ribs, something that felt like it was clawing at his chest from the inside out.

“She wouldn’t have wanted this.”

Damian stilled.

“You keep saying that,” Damian said, voice tight, voice low, voice lined with something Tim couldn’t fully decipher. “Like you actually know what she wanted.”

Tim’s throat tightened.

“You didn’t know her, Drake.”

A beat of silence.

“You don’t get to say that,” Tim said, voice shaking with something raw. “You don’t get to act like you gave a damn about her when it actually mattered.”

Damian’s eyes burned.

“You don’t get to act like you knew her, either,” he shot back, his voice venomous. “You don’t get to tell me what she would have wanted—”

Tim let out a breathless laugh. “And you do?” His voice was rising now, sharp with frustration. “You think you had the right to drag her out of her grave and throw her into the Lazarus Pit because you couldn’t deal with it?”

Damian’s stomach churned. “Shut up.”

Tim stepped forward. “You think she would’ve wanted this?”

Damian’s nails dug into his palms.

And at that moment, Stephanie, who’d be silently listening to the entire argument, stepped forward. “Okay, that’s enough, guys—”

“You think she would’ve wanted to wake up in that pit—if she even could?” Tim’s voice cracked slightly, but he didn’t stop. “To wake up wrong?”

“No,” Tim interrupted, his voice raw. He stepped closer, his fists trembling at his sides. “You think you’re the only one who wanted her back?” His voice cracked slightly, but he pushed through. “You think you’re the only one who couldn’t accept it?”

Damian exhaled sharply, looking away.

“You thiink you’re the only one who’s thought of dumping her in a Lazarus Pit, hoping that somehow—”

Tim’s breath caught.

He stopped.

Because he couldn’t say it either.

Because saying it out loud would make it real.

Would make it final.

That there really was no way of bringing you back to life.

And for a moment, neither of them spoke.

Neither of them moved.

“That’s enough.”

Bruce’s voice cut through the air, sharp, commanding, absolute.

Tim sucked in a breath.

Damian’s hands shook.

Silence.

The silence that followed was suffocating. Heavy. Almost unbearable.

Tim felt his pulse pounding in his ears, his breath still uneven, his body still tense from the argument—no, from the fight. Because that’s what this was.

Damian wasn’t even looking at him anymore.

His hands were curled into fists so tight that his knuckles had turned white, his shoulders were stiff, his breath was shallow, and his entire posture was wound so tightly that Tim thought he might just snap.

But he wouldn’t.

Not in front of Bruce.

Bruce, who had spoken with finality, whose voice had cut through the air like a blade, sharp enough to make even Damian shut up.

Tim swallowed, dragging a hand down his face before exhaling sharply, trying—failing—to let go of the tension clawing at his chest. His other hand clenched at his side, nails digging into his palm, grounding him, steadying him, because if he didn’t, he wasn’t sure what would happen.

Damian still wasn’t looking at him.

He wasn’t looking at Bruce either.

He was staring straight ahead, at the cave floor, at something that wasn’t even there, his entire body locked up, unreadable, unreadable, unreadable—

And then his gaze shifted.

Just barely.

Tim saw the exact moment his eyes landed on your body.

—or, at least, where your body should have been.

You were still there.

Your body was still there.

They had laid you down. Covered you up with a white sheet. Tim hadn’t been the one to do it—he didn’t even know who had done it, if it was Bruce, or Stephanie, or if they had both done it together, but he knew it hadn’t been him.

He hadn’t looked.

Not really.

He hadn’t let himself.

Damian’s fingers twitched.

His breathing hitched.

And then, before anyone could say anything—before Bruce could look at him, before Tim could process anything, before Stephanie could even move—

Damian turned and stormed out of the cave.

His boots struck the floor hard, fast, and then he was gone.

Stephanie opened her mouth, but nothing came out of it.

Bruce was already turning back toward the Batcomputer, already refocusing, already shutting down, because that was what he did. That was how he functioned.

Tim exhaled sharply.

The tension in his chest was still there.

Still suffocating.

Still unbearable.

He thought back to what he’d said. Thought back to what Damian did.

And Tim hated how he would’ve done the exact same thing Damian did if he were given the chance to.

Hated he was just like Damian in that sense.

Without a word, without a look, without a second thought—

Tim turned and left, too.

The alley reeked of rain-soaked asphalt and cigarette smoke, the kind that clung to the air long after the ember had burned out. A flickering streetlamp cast jagged shadows against the crumbling brick, the light barely reaching past the fog curling along the ground. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed—short-lived, swallowed by the city’s restless hum.

Then came the scratch of a lighter, a brief glow illuminating a worn trench coat, a sharp inhale followed by a slow exhale, smoke drifting through the damp air.

“Well, ain’t this a bloody mess.”

woops… 😬 heyyy guys…!! 🫣 did y’all miss me HAHA. this was definitely long overdue… i think i probably gave yall trust issues 😭 actual chapter 7 will be out at utc+8 12am on 14 Feb 🥰

taglist is closed ‼️(i’ll think about opening it again soon 🤫)

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*Tim and Damian fighting like usual*

*Bat!reader on a call*: Hold on just a second. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. My brothers- My brothers are- *pauses*

*Bat!reader yelled at the two*: STOP.

*Tim and Damian stopped fighting and looked over to where Bat!reader was*

*Stephanie and Duke wheezed as they witnessed the whole debacle*

Bat!reader: GET OFF THE COUCH.

*Tim and Damian scared shitless, got off the couch*

*Stephanie and Duke started wheezing even harder*

Yandere batfam x Catwoman!Reader

Gotham was never kind to strays.

Selina used to tell you that, back when you were small enough to curl up in her lap, listening to the city’s heartbeat.

"No one gives a damn about a stray, kitten—unless they can own it. And once they’re done? They throw it away."

She wasn’t wrong.

When she left, Bruce took you in.

Not because he wanted to. But because you were Selina Kyle’s daughter, and that meant something.

You weren’t a Robin. You weren’t a Wayne. You weren’t even a sidekick.

You were just… there.

Ignored. Forgotten. Overlooked.

Until you left.

And suddenly, they were obsessed.

Alfred was the closest thing you had to a father.

When Bruce was too busy? He was there. When Dick forgot you existed? He remembered. When Jason dismissed you? He encouraged you. When Tim ignored you? He listened. When Damian sneered? He scolded him.

He was the one who made sure you ate. The one who noticed when you were gone too long. The one who never made you feel like an outsider.

"You deserve more, Miss (Y/N)," he said once, handing you a cup of tea in the dead of night.

"More than them."

You should’ve listened to him sooner.

Dick was all smiles and promises—until it came to you.

"You're part of the family, (Y/N)! You can count on me."

And yet, he never did.

He was too busy being Gotham’s sweetheart. Too busy playing the perfect son. Too busy charming the entire city to even notice you existed.

But the second you walked away?

Suddenly, he was watching.

"Why didn’t you tell me you were unhappy?"

You scoffed. "Oh? I didn’t realize you could see past your own reflection long enough to notice."

Jason made sure you knew you weren’t one of them.

"You’re just a spoiled alley cat, living off scraps."

He ignored you unless he needed someone to argue with. Mocked you when Bruce gave you even a little attention.

But when you left?

He was furious.

Breaking bones for info. Watching from rooftops. Glowering at every man who so much as glanced your way.

"You wanna tell me what the hell you’re doing, flaunting yourself around Gotham like that?"

"Aww, Jay, you sound jealous."

"Tch. Keep dreaming, kitten."

Tim was always too busy.

He never even looked at you when you were in the room. Too lost in his screens, too obsessed with cases, too wired on caffeine to care.

But the second you left?

He had every camera in Gotham tracking you.

"You’re reckless," he muttered, catching you outside a gala, staring as men practically fell over themselves to get your attention.

You sipped your champagne. "And you’re obsessed. Funny how that works."

Damian loathed you.

"You are nothing but a thief, unworthy of my father’s resources."

"Cats are not loyal creatures. You will betray us."

"You are an embarrassment to the family."

But when you left?

He became your shadow.

"You cannot hide from me, (Y/N)."

You laughed, flipping off the nearest security camera. "Not hiding, baby bat. Just don’t wanna be found."

Barbara barely tolerated you when you lived in the manor.

"Stay out of my way, (Y/N). This is real crime-fighting."

But once you left?

Bruce became obsessed. The boys started chasing you. Even criminals whispered your name like a legend.

And Barbara was seething.

"He’s only worried about you because of Selina," she sneered once.

"Oh? That why you’re mad?" you hummed, inspecting your nails. "Because he never chased after you?"

She didn’t speak to you for months after that.

Stephanie always mocked you for being a “spoiled alley cat.”

"What, you think you’re Gotham’s princess now?"

But suddenly?

The men she flirted with were too busy staring at you.

You barely had to lift a finger before men were offering you drinks, pulling out chairs, tripping over themselves for a second of your attention.

And Stephanie?

She hated it.

"What, you think you’re better than us now?" she snapped once.

You smiled sweetly. "Honey, I don’t think. I know."

At first, it was just messages.

"Come home." "You don’t have to do this." "This isn’t how family treats each other."

Then, the sightings.

Jason breaking kneecaps for intel. Damian lurking in the shadows. Dick trying to “talk” on rooftops. Tim hacking into your every account.

And Bruce.

Bruce, who was always watching.

You felt it before you saw him.

A shift in the air. A silence too loud.

You turned.

There he was.

No mask. No cape. Just Bruce Wayne, standing in the alley like he could already see you locked in the manor again.

"Enough, (Y/N). This game is over."

You smirked. "Aww, Bats. You finally noticed me?"

"Come home."

"Let me think… no."

His jaw clenched. "I won’t ask again."

"And I won’t say no again. But hey, at least now you care, right? Only took me leaving for that to happen."

He moved fast—too fast. But you were faster, slipping from his grasp like silk.

"You can’t run forever."

"I don’t have to."

You grinned, stepping into the shadows as a familiar figure emerged from the darkness behind you.

Long legs. A knowing smirk. A whip coiled at her hip.

"Kitten," Selina purred, eyes glinting like gold. "Time to come home."

Bruce stiffened.

Because for the first time—

It wasn’t his home you were going to.

It never was.

And it never would be.

And the Batfamily?

They would never recover from losing what was never theirs to begin with.

Genderbend Yellowjackets x reader

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Based on the Paramount TV Series: Yellowjackets

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Everything is white, icy, and quiet— except for the hurried sound of footsteps sinking into the soft snow.

A boy is running.

He looks young, maybe in his late teens.

His pale face is drenched in sweat, wide eyes frantic, black hair stuck to his forehead. His breath escapes in thick clouds. He's wearing only a white blouse that's far too big for him. His legs are bare, red from the cold— clothes not meant for weather this deadly.

But he keeps running.

Stumbling. Falling. Getting up again.

Like a cornered deer.

Voices in the distance.

Not intelligible— but human. Or what used to be human. Fanatical, almost religious cries reverberate through the trees like cursed echoes.

He looks over his shoulder, eyes wide with terror.

Nothing. No one in sight.

A misstep. A short scream.

He falls.

The snow swallows him for a second… Then he's gone.

A horrible, dry, violent sound.

Inside the pit, wooden stakes pierce through the boy’s body.

He still moves—trembling. A weak spasm in one bloodied finger, where a silver ring glints faintly. His eyes are wide, glazed over.

Someone appears above the trap.

A figure.

Face covered in a translucent cloth—like surgical gauze. Only the eyes are visible. Cold. Empty. Inquisitive. Grotesque features. Hollow stare.

The figure stands silently, as if admiring an offering.

In the distance, a low, ancient sound— like muffled thunder or a drum echoing from the bowels of the forest.

The prey has been captured.

---

1996

GOAL.

The net ripples. The crowd roars.

Teammates leap from the makeshift stands. Jack screams, arms raised high:

“We’re going to the fucking Nationals!!!”

It was true.

His friends run to him— they pile on top of him, laughing, shouting, hugging. The sky seemed bluer than ever.

They were a team.

A family.

Unaware of what was waiting for them.

Those boys had a bright future ahead.

---